Iron Enough To Make A Nail
by Apollo Wings
Summary: Jowan escaped Kinloch Hold at the expense of his best friend and his lover, but what does he want and how does he become entangled in the web of deceit at Redcliffe? Slightly AU, do review or PM your thoughts! WIP
1. Iron Enough To Paint A Nail

Author note: An extended story based on no playthrough in particular on theories about Jowan, Eamon and Redcliffe in general. Hold all questions for reviews, which I know you'll be doing - because your opinion helps shape my story as you well know.

Disclaimer: Owned by EA/Bioware/David Gaider. The rhyme by Terry Pratchett in Wintersmith, a Tiffany Aching story in the Discworld series.

* * *

_Iron enough to make a nail, _  
_Lime enough to paint a wall, _  
_Water enough to drown a dog, _  
_Sulphur enough to stop the fleas, _  
_Potash enough to wash a shirt, _  
_Gold enough to buy a bean, _  
_Silver enough to coat a pin, _  
_Lead enough to ballast a bird, _  
_Phosphor enough to light the town, _  
_Poison enough to kill a cow,_

_Strength enough to build a home, _  
_Time enough to hold a child, _  
_Love enough to break a heart._

Jowan bent over double as he reached the shore of Lake Calenhad, soaked through with icy waters that chilled his flesh down to the bones. Maker, but his entire body ached with the exertion of swimming in those foetid, freezing waters. He shivered uncontrollably, biting down on his bottom lip to cease his teeth from chattering despite his lower jaw wobbling like a weak jelly. He wiped some of his back hair off his face, taking in a deep breath of cool air that seemed warmer for how cold he truly was.

The blood mage didn't know how long he'd swum, how his muscles stiffened in the lake as he tried to get past floes of ice and debris that scattered the water, having slipped and skinned his knees on the algae covered docks - they felt raw now, tinged with frostbite if he couldn't warm up. Jowan rubbed his hands together and curled into himself in the dark of the night, his breath coming out in plumes of brilliant white over his sopping knees where he wrapped his arms around them.

He sniffed. "I'm so sorry Amell, if you'd just run too." He bit back a sob at his only friend left to the tender mercies of the templars. Of Lily, the woman he thought who'd loved him despite everything that he was and could be. Jowan was alone now, alone, cold and utterly miserable, curled into himself, eyes hot against the night air where he wanted to cry but couldn't even let himself for the wretchedness of it. He looked at his hand, the gaping wound running with blood that stained on the knees of his robes where it was held, the icy water had turned the skin around it the palest of whites, more pale than even his own skin was.

Why had he even done it? Some foolish thought that his best friend, the man that thought him so great he'd be friends with the socially inept apprentice over friendlier people like Anders, Petra, Kinnon, even Eadric wasn't as bad even with his acidic tongue. Kelli might have been an improvement, even if the apprentice was begging to be made Tranquil to 'cure' her of the curse of magic.

And that thought gave Jowan a small modicum of strength. He was out of that place, out of the isolated tower that was Kinloch Hold, once an outpost of Avvari Barbarians, built with the help of the dwarves against the might of the Tevinter Imperium - now a place where mages were corralled into living, if you could call it a life. They studied until their eyes were milky and their bones creaked, until their hair was long and whiskery white with age, perhaps having gained a portion of significance over fellows in that prison by being given a title of Enchanter or Senior Enchanter, for skill or age, whichever came first.

Jowan was away from the templars, the men and women sworn to the Maker to observe, to guard and even kill their mage charges should they step out of line. Or Andraste give him mercy - do the most cruel thing possible. Remove their magic. Make them Tranquil, a husk of a person that functioned and worked, that took orders but felt to passions, no love and emotion. A person cut off from the Fade, from the realm of dreams and death and demonic influences. The same influences that made Jowan weak, pushed his natural desires to be better than his only friend by taking a deal and condemning his soul.

Jowan ached more as he stood, the muscles in his legs and back protesting fiercely at the sudden movement from such stillness. He stood, watching the tower in it's starkness against the unfettered view of stars and grey clouds sprayed on the sky. It took his breath away and still he never wanted to see it again. Never wanted to even hear the word mage again.

In doing what he did, he had a chance. No phylactery, no blood leash the templars could use to drag him back to the tower with. He could forge a life of his own somewhere, somewhere far away from this place. And Jowan rejoiced in that thought for a mere moment before the crushing pain of the price of it hit him again. Lily and Amell. Jauffre Amell, how he wished he could have done better by him, how he could have done better by Lily, should have done better by her. But the cost and risk was so great and the maleficar was swept up in the haze of first love, the fluttering in his stomach and stolen kisses.

He racked his brains for something he could do to keep their memory. Locked into the secretive templar prison of Aeonar and rotting far away from the gaze of the world. He was always a dab hand in alchemy, he'd heal. Jowan would do good. He'd have a small cabin somewhere and he'd grow healthy herbs.

Thyme, rosemary, oregano, mint, caraway, chamomile, dandelion, milk thistle, dill, coriander, lavender, lemongrass, basil, fennel, bay, garlic, rosehips, elderflower, ginger and of course elfroot. All proven to help keep a person hale and whole, a magic all of their own in the botany of plantlife. That was what Jowan could do like no-other. Why he'd not even seen that was a pang of regret that radiated in his chest and he grimaced at the bad taste it left in his mouth.

He'd have a cabin, he'd grow his herbs and he'd make tonics and tinctures, potions and salves by the barrel and make the loss of Amell and Lily not be in vain. He would do good, Jowan would be free, he would do good and he would not forget them.

But first - he had to live. The newly self-proclaimed apothecary sniffed, running a wet sleeve under his nose to catch a drip of water and mucus. His palm stung from his hand bunching in cold on it's own accord. He winced at it. First, he'd bind this, cure it with his herbs and leave a scar to remember them visually when he worked.

Then he'd find honest work somewhere, eventually have his cabin. It would take time. But Jowan had time. He would have his cabin, he would have his herbs in his garden and he would remember them. He repeated it like a mantra in his head as he trudged, water slopping in the bottom of thinly soled shoes, the wind chilling through his wet robes.

He caught sight of a pair of working trousers, patched and worn on a washing line, a shirt stained with old sweat in the armpits but clean, some long hand-knitted woollen socks and a few pairs of smalls. He felt bad, but the person wouldn't know it was him. Jowan stole the clothes, grabbing the sturdy work boots by the porch of the door. Anyone who lived this close to the tower might expect a runaway mage to steal their clothes. Or perhaps they never thought the templars would be so lax in their duties of guards, judge and executioner of people like him?

He peeled his robes off, slapping them wetly into a bush, his skin like gooseflesh in the night air as he hurried the clothes on, sniffing as silently as possible so not to wake anyone from noticing the clothes gone so soon.

The trousers were cut too long and large but after tucking them into the big socks and pulling the woven drawstring tight to his middle they sufficed and were quite warm despite the chill of the wind still in them. The shirt was equally large, but the escaped apprentice stuffed the tails of it into the drawn together waist of the trousers and peeked out of the bushes to see another house not so far away, the back door slightly ajar.

He knew it was wrong of him. But he'd done so much wrong that the Maker couldn't judge him any worse than He did now. Jowan reached toward the coatpeg in the porch of the back door at an old moleskin coat, oiled against the weather and sheepskin shortly fuzzed inside for warmth.

Then he smelt the blood. Jowan nearly was sick, the smell of blood was a tang of iron and salt that stuck rebelliously in his nostrils, heady to the demonic urges quelled beneath the surface of his consciousness. He peeked into the main room of the simple house and back-pedalled quickly. The bodies of two children, a husband and wife most likely and an elderly man mottled with decay, bloated and their blood pooled together into the wooden floorboards and threadbare rug in front of a dead hearth.

He gulped back at the bile rising in his throat. So now he'd stolen from a dead family, a family nobody had noticed was dead in a while from the sight of it. Before anyone could notice and blame the maleficar - Jowan fled into the night, the warm stolen coat over his stolen clothes, wet robes as a spare change of clothes should he need them bundled into his arms. His legs protested vehemently and his stomach rolled with pain as his muscles on his abdomen stitched.

But Jowan ran, and he didn't stop running until he almost couldn't breathe any more. He found a copse of trees that was more sheltered from the elements than most and pitched himself into a lower branch, draping his robes wide in the branches above for shade in the dawning light and in case it rained. And the apostate slept lightly, sniffing a cold that started not long ago and hoping against hope that the futile wishes and dreams of someone like himself wouldn't be dashed.

He just had to hope.

Enough iron to make a nail - that was something that made a man. Jowan was made of his dreams, of his hopes. He never wanted those torn away from him as he drifted into fitful visions of a humble cabin, flowering and non-flowering herbs grown in abundance around and his door open for people wanting to purchase his remedies.


	2. Lime Enough To Paint A Wall

Disclaimer: Still not my intellectual property. But I'll keep you informed if that changes.

Author note: Eye dialect is so much fun! Read it out in your head... fun!

* * *

_Iron enough to make a nail, _  
_Lime enough to paint a wall, _  
_Water enough to drown a dog, _  
_Sulphur enough to stop the fleas, _  
_Potash enough to wash a shirt, _  
_Gold enough to buy a bean, _  
_Silver enough to coat a pin, _  
_Lead enough to ballast a bird, _  
_Phosphor enough to light the town, _  
_Poison enough to kill a cow,_

_Strength enough to build a home, _  
_Time enough to hold a child, _  
_Love enough to break a heart._

Jowan squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the aching mana would just go away. Normally, as an apprentice he'd have been in lessons, using his magic to try and light candles or freeze water. But as an apostate, he was hiding his magic. It bubbled beneath the surface of his consciousness like a mental blister.

"So yer lookin' fer a short spell a work eh boy?" The head fisherman on 'The Trout's Lips' chuckled to himself. "Yer's mighty thin."

"I was ill recently." Jowan said quietly, rubbing a spot of tension on the back of his neck and trying to quell the insistent ache of mana by letting a small pulse of lightning from his fingers to work into the muscles extending down his back.

Hopefully nobody noticed. "Still a skinny lil' runt ain't ya? An' hark at the edyoocated speakin' boys!" The man clapped his knee with a large calloused hand. The men repairing a coarse net for fish with darning needles probably as big as his fingers barked at the lame excuse for a joke. Jowan probably thought Kelli, the depressive Tranquil-wannabe made better ones. Not that he'd risk the wrath of a man twice his width in muscle alone. "S'five bits a day, ya risk ya weeks wages if ya rip the oilskins and ya clean 'em yerself too. Clear, what's yer name?"

The apostate's face lit up in genuine surprise. The man was going to hire him? "It's Jowan, Jowan Levyn Ser! Oh you won't regret this, I'll make sure I pull twice my weight!"

The fisherman snorted and leaned forward on his stool, wiping his grizzled mouth with a dirty cuff. "Yer gonna have ta, bein' such a soddin' runt! Pleased ta meets ya though Mistur Levyn. Call me Boss or anyfink ya like s'long as it ain't late fer lunch!" He snorted again. "That's Rhobert but we's all call 'im Rabbie and that slow fucker's Derrick."

He gestured a great thumb over to the two men fixing the net, one with greying hair waving two fingers when 'Rabbie' was said, the other, brown-haired man grunting along with 'Derrick'. "Very pleased to meet you." Jowan said timidly. He couldn't help but feel timid.

* * *

It was surprising to the apostate what a bit of air, some sun and grafting a bit of hard work could do to a man. With his wages he slept in The Rusty Anchor in the Redcliffe dockside district when they were on land, when they were on the lake overnight they pulled the oiled canvases over two of them while the other kept watch on the nets. Rabbie and Derrick were fantastic at teaching him and surprisingly patient as he fumbled with the heavy nets.

But a bit of fresh air, a bit of sun, fish for dinner and ale enough to drink. Jowan had never felt so free his entire life! He felt to healthy with the slightly salty air in his hair, the sun weakly beating down on his face. He had a rope blister on his thumb! He actually worked for that blister!

Jowan smiled as he sat back into the boat, the Boss steering the small tug back toward the docks with their bounty of oysters, mussels, winkles and cockles. No fish today, today they'd been dredging. The lobster and crab cages were a bit empty but Derrick reckoned with a bit more time just sitting in the sun and listening to life pass them by they'd make up for it tomorrow.

"Oi, Levyn!" Rabbie cuffed the apostate on the side of the head jovially. "You's gone inta anover world again?"

"Huh?" Jowan sniffed, unused to having been addressed by his last name but finding it suiting him with this start of a new life. "Must've dozed off slightly." He ached, truly, in muscles he wasn't sure he had before. But he'd never felt so alive. If not for the bubbling on his mana beneath his skin, Jowan might've thought himself scot free.

"Yer bleedin' twitchy today Levvy," The Boss laughed. "Finkin' 'bout tha' pritty barmaid?"

Jowan blushed slightly, looking over the waters toward the docks. "Nah, Bella doesn't like me." He shrugged.

"Bella likes 'em wiv a bit a scruff." Derrick snorted, scratching his stubble dusted overly square chin. Jowan rolled his eyes discretely. He liked the people he worked with. And it was getting him closer to his dream, that cabin with the sprawling herb garden and a kitchen for making medicines seemed more real with callouses on his hands and sweat on his brow.

Jowan smiled despite himself, despite the cost this freedom came at. He even filled the stolen clothes out better, had clothes he bought with his own wages. Jowan owned his own things and it felt better than anything could feel in the circle. Better than praise from an Enchanter or Senior Enchanter for control or aptitude with spell and theory work, better than a stolen sweetroll, even a tryst in a corner.

Jowan's dreams felt so close he could taste them, smell the lime paint he'd wash the walls of his wattle and daub cabin with, the grassy stains he'd have on the knees and cuffs of all his clothes where he tended his garden. Jowan positively glowed with the happiness of it all. "Happy fucker, latch us up will ya?" The Boss chucked a worn but thick rope, crusted with dry algae and salts at him.

The apostate caught it, cursing a wet edge whipping him through his oilskins that went up to his waist, held up with braces over a coarse woollen shirt. His natural reaction was quelled, the mana in his body aching to be released in retaliation. Damn this! With that, Jowan's good mood was gone and he had to focus on not exposing the dirty secret he was born with.

Damn Chantry for their dogmatic sway over the minds of good, working men like Rabbie, Derrick and the Boss. Jowan tied a Lighterman's Hitch in his hand and walked unsteadily onto the gangplank from the starboard off to the jetty. He secured the knot to their wooden stake, looking up in time to grab the next rope thrown by Rabbie and tying the second up as he'd been taught. It was easiest if the thinnest, shortest on the boat did this job, just because the gangplank groaned under the bulk of the other three.

"All secure Capt'n!" Jowan smirked as he saluted, Derrick throwing his weight over the side and shaking the jetty playfully.

"Levvy!" Derrick grabbed the smaller man with a log-sized arm around his neck, grazing his knuckles into Jowan's scalp.

"Maker's arsehole Derry!" Jowan scowled, red in the face when he'd finally scrambled free and looking like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Derrick chortled at his nickname and clapped him on the back with a dinner-plate sized hand.

"Derry, leave tha new bloke 'lone." Rabbie rolled his eyes.

"Boss!" Derrick moaned.

"Leave off, all's a ya!" The Boss chucked a wet net full of the heavy oysters at Derrick on the jetty. Jowan put his hands out as Rabbie chucked the finer, smaller net of winkles covered in their amalgamated weeds. The water dampened the front of his woollen shirt but the oilskins did their job.

Rabbie jumped off the side next to the two younger fishermen, the cockles slung over his shoulder and The Boss came last, bringing the shiny black ovals that were the mussels. Rabbie once told Jowan that there was a man that collected the leftover winkle shells and attached them to his trews and shirt for a local dance involving wooden sticks, awful music and the winkle shells jingling on the dancers' limbs. Some people were crazy. "Hop o'er an' grab tha' lobster, s'my dinner tonight." The Boss gestured toward his newest member of the crew. Jowan slung the winkle net over his shoulder, regretting the water running down his back as he lifted one heavy boot after another before he grabbed the looped rope on the lobster cage.

The lobster futilely banged his claw on the cage as near as possible to Jowan's hand. The apostate arched an eyebrow, looking at the beady black eyes. He felt rather sorry for the lobster. He'd been caged, his claws had been tied up, then he'd be waiting until he was thrown into a boiling pot, a lid placed atop until his death throes stopped. Boiled alive. Jowan felt some odd companionship with the lobster, he'd been imprisoned in Kinloch Hold, smited whenever the templars felt like it and watched constantly... and they could either make him Tranquil or kill him if he stepped out of line. Which he had, to be perfectly honest - but it was to escape.

"Sharin' a deep conversation wiv tha' there lobster Levvy?" Derrick laughed. Jowan rolled his eyes and jumped back off the tug with a slight wobble of the jetty under his feet.

And he followed the three others, sweat on their brows, fruits of their labours slung on their shoulders and happier than Jowan ever imagined he could have been.

He was made of his dreams, and they felt more real every day. Jowan Levyn was working his way slowly but surely into making them a reality but he was proactively doing them, not just letting them idle in his mind like so many people.

"Whelp," The Boss put his net into their Dwarven Coolbox. Jowan recognised the cold runes on the side to keep their bounty fresh the moment he'd laid eyes on it and slung his net and cage into the box alongside Rabbie and Derrick. "S'pose yer all wants yer pay eh?"

The men shrugged but nevertheless hands were put out as their five coppers for the day were counted into their hands, as well as an extra one for the dredging. It was harder work but at least they were paid more for it. Jowan secreted two of the coppers into the spare leather pouch he kept under his shirt, the other four in his hand for the night's board, food and an ale if he was lucky. The Rusty Anchor was cheap, it stank and you had to hope you didn't end up with a scar on your belly but Jowan liked it. And two coppers went into his small but growing fund to start his cabin and garden.


	3. Water Enough To Drown A Dog

Disclaimer: I've started a petition to own the rights to Dragon Age by the age of eighty. I didn't even sign it...

Note: Double update!

* * *

_Iron enough to make a nail, _  
_Lime enough to paint a wall, _  
_Water enough to drown a dog, _  
_Sulphur enough to stop the fleas, _  
_Potash enough to wash a shirt, _  
_Gold enough to buy a bean, _  
_Silver enough to coat a pin, _  
_Lead enough to ballast a bird, _  
_Phosphor enough to light the town, _  
_Poison enough to kill a cow,_

_Strength enough to build a home, _  
_Time enough to hold a child, _  
_Love enough to break a heart._

Eamon paced his office. An Arl – anyone with political connections and especially one so clued into The Grand Game had his sources of information.

Already, Ser Donall – one of his knights in on the quest of Andraste's Ashes, because if the holy mortal remains of the Maker's bride and prophet could be found, and found by the guidance of his hand, Eamon would mark his own place in history, no longer simply the younger brother of the late Queen Rowan, Warrior Queen. But already Ser Donall had returned, not with the ashes but not empty handed either. Information was worth it's weight of breath in gold and Ser Donall had plenty to share with his liege lord.

Apparently, Cailan was dead. He knew that of course, the rumour mill had not been quiet over the succession situation, his nephew having left no legitimate heirs and having not signed the paperwork to place Eamon's own son, Connor, as his heir. Cailan hadn't even managed to divorce that barren commoner Anora Mac Tir before his untimely demise and either leave succession to relatives of Rowan seeing as Maric's line would have ended or married some easy to manipulate chit from western Orlais.

Arl Eamon Guerrin no longer had the ear of the monarch and the thought made him feel worryingly impotent.

There was a smart knock at the door. Eamon sat down at the silkwood desk that dominated the room, clearing his throat before he bid the unknown on the other side to enter. His mouth was parched so he poured himself two inches of brandy from the cut crystal decanter on the desk.

He swallowed down a good inch of the brandy when his younger brother, thirty-eight years and always looking a twenty year younger than his prematurely grey brother; chain gambeson, leather riding britches and long boots covered in dry mud strode in with purpose, no ceremony as he sat himself in the plush chair opposite. Teagan coughed into his hand but did not speak before Eamon could interject – "If you get mud on the carpets Isolde might get you thrashed." Teagan chuckled weakly, his eyes shone like glass and his nose was pink. He'd been riding recently then, not just too lazy to change before seeing his brother.

Eamon looked tiredly down at the ledger on his desk, feigning an interest in the frankly depressing news his seneschal had presented him on the thick vellum with numbers and letters that cut painfully blocky in the paper. Low incomes from the frost that got the winter cabbages, the shipwright taking twice as long on the commissioned ship than quoted, population booming so that the peasantry was asking for some sort of subsidised education for their ill-bred children. It all cost money that wasn't being made. Eamon grimaced at the thought of them all, grubby hands reaching for him.

"Eamon," Teagan said sternly, much moreso than Eamon was used to from his younger brother and technical vassal seeing as he'd made Teagan Bann of Rainesfere. "Teyrn Loghain has declared himself Regent in stead of his daughter and claimed that the Grey Wardens are to blame for our late King's death!" He let out a heavy breath, as if he'd held the information on the tip of his tongue ever since having started his ride from the capital. Denerim was where his brother had been and he'd arrived surprisingly speedily.

Eamon kept his bored expression up. "You assume I haven't eyes and ears in Denerim that haven't informed me of your dramatic show for our new Regent." He drawled slowly, sipping his brandy. Teagan seemed to deflate that his brother was more knowledgeable than he knew. He was like a lost puppy after Eamon, and happy in the shadow of his two elder, one late, siblings.

"I had to tell you myself." He said in a befittingly smaller voice than he'd started the conversation in but one that was too small to befit a Guerrin. Eamon sniffed and looked towards the window of the office, watching the smoke curl out of the chimney of the blacksmith's forge in the town.

"I will speak candidly brother. We may have another way of controlling the throne once more," Eamon looked at his younger brother, finding him with a suitably shocked expression of raised eyebrows and wide eyes. "Ser Donall, one of my knights, has informed me that in his travels he met two Grey Wardens that survived the massacre of Ostagar, Wardens angry at Loghain for not charging at the old fortress. They will be coming here to gain my support against this darkspawn incursion and against Loghain."

"That does not mean controlling the throne." Teagan said warily, as if dangerous ears were listening to him.

"Ser Donall reports on the appearance of one of the Grey Wardens as one of his friends when he trained here in the castle, a bastard of the late King Maric." Eamon elaborated, hoping Teagan would understand soon without it being thrown over his head like a bucket of icy Lake Calenhad water.

Suddenly Teagan's face brightened. "Alistair? He was still in the Chantry and refused to acknowledge yours or my presence when we last went. If he has become a Grey Warden not only will he be a bastard never presented to the court but very unpopular for supposedly leading our late King Cailan to his death."

Eamon rolled his eyes, as if it were obvious. "Alistair is supposedly on route here after he and his Warden companion have gained some support to show me they're not a lost cause, Ser Donall found the other Warden surprisingly loose lipped about what they were doing."

"I see." Teagan frowned, the implications were not lost on Eamon either, if they knew then chances were that someone else would too, someone who was common as muck and had ascended higher than Eamon had after the Rebellion against the Orlesians. Teyrn Loghain. And if he didn't want them, they'd be dead.

"Regardless, Alistair needed to go to the Chantry. How else was I suppose to make sure our last choice didn't beget any bastards of his own all over the place? Or imagine if he were married to some ruddy fishwife with seven children of questionable parentage rather than someone civilised who'd know their place?" Eamon knew it wasn't his only reason, he knew, of course he knew about the addictive properties of lyrium and that the Chantry gave it's templars the blue mineral to keep them contained and loyal. A king with the addiction would be malleable and compliant with a bribery of a vial and his ear would be open if such a thing were gifted too. It may have been dirty but Eamon never claimed innocence.

"Such talk is treasonous brother, it were as if you'd planned Cailan's death yourself." Teagan said warningly. Eamon didn't like his tone.

"The only death is that of Ferelden, having a commoner taking the throne by force and blaming innocent warriors on his blind ambition for it." Eamon was proud of his words, if it came to a Landsmeet he may even use those exact ones. It sounded powerful, educated and it would put that Loghain Mac Tir in his place.

"I trust you have a plan then Eamon?" Teagan said with pursed lips.

The door was suddenly thrown open and Isolde came in, distraught, her blonde hair sticking at odd angles out of her tight bun and her plump lips pulled into a frown. Eamon felt a pang of upset at not having a happy wife, as if her unhappiness was his direct fault and if a husband could make his wife unhappy then he was less of a man. It was belittling but he would never say such a thing aloud.

"Oh Eamon! Something dreadful has happened." Her voice was hoarse and Eamon sprang to his feet, wrapping a velvet clad arm around her thin shoulders and ushering her into his own seat and pouring the saddened Orlesian beauty a snifter of the good brandy.

"Hush my _chou-fleur_, tell me in your own time." He shushed her and brought a small smile to her lips. She loved it when he babbled nonsensically in Orlesian to her, he'd accidentally called the girl while they courted his cauliflower, his _chou-fleur_, rather than his favourite, his _chou-chou_. It was an innocent mistake but Isolde demanded he never change that mistake.

"Connor, oh Eamon… it is all my fault. My blood is unclean and has cursed our son." She sniffed morosely, swallowing the brandy like it would cure any ailment.

"How could you have done anything to our boy?" Eamon tutted. He rolled his eyes at Teagan, saying '_women!_' in that singular expression. "You are a wonderful mother, you pick only the best governesses, only the best to train and shape our lad."

Isolde sniffled pitifully and leaned forward, her pretty face scrunched up and reddening like she was going to cry soon. Eamon caught her and rubbed a hand up her back. "But he is… Eamon our boy zapped me with the foulest of skills. Our sweet boy is a mage."

And with that, the very air in the office was frigid, Eamon swallowed. No! Even if he placed Alistair on the throne he had to make sure he never had heirs that could despise an elderly advisor. He was supposed to have the bastard child make Connor his heir, a Guerrin would sit on the throne again!

This would give the Couslands reason to try and claim the throne themselves. It had been luck that had put Cailan there when the Bannorn had screamed and demanded Bryce Cousland take the throne. Eamon had pleaded for his political life those dark days after Maric's death at sea. The child of the man that raised a rebellion and freed Ferelden from a tyrant and the woman that fought at his side should take his rightful place! Not some Teyrn that should never have been so jumped up! It was a slight to Rowan, thinking of placing a bastard of Maric's on the throne now but it was to secure Guerrin dominance. Rowan would have understood.

It wasn't as if as a young man Eamon hadn't heard whispers anyway, about how the newly placed Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir had been a lover of his warrior sister. He hated the man, defiling her good reputation as a good and chase woman! As if it weren't enough that a commoner had become a Teyrn. So Eamon hated Loghain with a passion, and now he would dispose of him. He just needed a strong ally. If this Warden showed up, with an army of sorts and hopefully a lack of political understandings...

Eamon smiled despite himself. "I have a plan my dear. Teagan, if you could enquire in the town for someone of magical talents to train our boy. Rumours are wonderful in Redcliffe sometimes."

Isolde looked up at her husband from within his arms, eyes shining with unshed tears and cheeks blotchy under her powdered make-up. "Dear husband, what will you do?"

"I have a plan my dear. And I will bring not only safety to our son, I will make sure Loghain is brought to his knees, he will not keep the throne and our plans will continue as they always did," Eamon smiled widely and gave Isolde a peck on her lips. "Never worry my _chou-fleur_, I have everything under control."

He would find an apostate. Connor would be trained enough to hide his magic. Then the apostate would have his loyalty tested until Eamon knew the man or woman could be used how his plan would go. Nobody would miss the apostate if something unfortunate happened because they weren't trustworthy enough, and if the templars heard of a maleficar having got close to the family... well it'd be even easier to get rid of them.

Eamon knew just how much water it would take to drown a dog, how much blasted work and conniving was needed to do what had to be done, there was always more than one way to skin a cat and Eamon would know them too. His family would be secure, and he'd have the ear of the monarch again. The Guerrins would remain with the powers they should have!

It was a shame things had to be so convoluted but you couldn't fix things. You worked with them and Eamon would be ready when everyone else was still slack-jawed with shock.


	4. Sulphur Enough To Stop The Fleas

Author note: I'm surprised now much a lot of you like this story. Enjoy the chapter that introduces our Warden.

Disclaimer: I think I lost my intellectual property when my brain went missing. Wanted: One brain, would prefer less mileage but the ability to play one instrument!

* * *

_Iron enough to make a nail, _  
_Lime enough to paint a wall, _  
_Water enough to drown a dog, _  
_Sulphur enough to stop the fleas, _  
_Potash enough to wash a shirt, _  
_Gold enough to buy a bean, _  
_Silver enough to coat a pin, _  
_Lead enough to ballast a bird, _  
_Phosphor enough to light the town, _  
_Poison enough to kill a cow,_

_Strength enough to build a home, _  
_Time enough to hold a child, _  
_Love enough to break a heart._

Jowan felt increasingly nervous as the day progressed, the sun beating down what felt like unholy heat in The Trout's Lips for how early in the year it still was. He wiped his brow with the back of his wrist, wishing he could chill a cup of water and drink something that would genuinely slake his thirst. Not only did he want something blessedly cool to drink but the apostate and one-day apothecary felt as if he didn't get rid of the magic under his skin he'd get bruises from the thumping pulse of it.

He supposed it was similar to how mundanes had energy that needed burning off. Magic was like that but he couldn't burn it off.

So the apostate fisherman toiled under the sun, accepting a bottle of weak cider from The Boss when he opened the Dwarven Coolbox to put a cage full of crabs inside. The four sat under the punishing midday sun, sucking bottlenecks that were too small to let the cider come out as quick as any of them would have wanted. "Yers all tell me this ain't the life. Cidur, couple o' mates an' tha sway o' a boat." Rabbie grinned, passing out mashed 'fish' sticks. The man was a fair cook, being able to make something tasty out of anything. But the fish sticks, an amalgamation of all the ends, eyes and everything else normal people didn't eat, mashed to a fine paste and then ground further, covered in breadcrumbs, sage, pepper, salt and onion then fried to a golden crisp. Rabbie didn't have a wife or children – being fey. But he kept a small living area in the tenement housing of Redcliffe. Which meant his lover was elven. Jowan had yet to meet Rabbie's lover but he must be well fed!

"Couldn'ta put it better." Derrick smiled goofily, his baby-ish face never crinkling as he smiled, he grabbed a handful from Rabbie of the fish sticks and shovied one quickly into his mouth. Derrick was more tight-lipped about his personal life but from what the gossiping Rabbie said, he'd been abandoned at about six and swept the Chantry until he was too old without joining the Templars or becoming a Brother. He wished neither, religion and discipline too much to focus on so he left and started working as a fisherman from that day onwards. He was salt of Thedas and a nicer man you couldn't wish to meet.

Jowan accepted a couple of the fish sticks from the elder of his fellows and sat back down on the bench, sipping some cider again before tucking into the stick. "You've outdone yourself again Rabbie." He smiled, gesturing a half-eaten fish stick at the greying man. Rabbie grinned, brown-stained teeth on show. The Boss laughed. "Why'd yer fink I got this!" He wobbled his paunch with the hand not holding the smouldering rolled cigarette that hung out of his lips of an evening usually, when it became cold and the smoke was indiscernible from their misty breaths. "Rabbie 'ere feeds us so often tha wife fought I were cheatin' on 'er an' 'avin' two meals ora evenin'!"

Derrick, Rabbie and Jowan chuckled at that. The Boss's wife – a fishwife if there ever was one, a mouth that named the boat they fished and trawled the lake with and as the Boss put it – blessedly barren. He loved her, they took in an orphan from the Chantry when Derrick told them about the boy. But he just couldn't look at the woman as he had when he was younger. "At leas' I dun't 'ave ta keep tryin'." The Boss had said when Jowan passed on his condolences about that.

They settled into a comfortable silence after that, munching on the fish sticks with the sway of the boat, the smell of the fish and shellfish in the Coolbox, cider that warmed quickly in the harsh sun. Rabbie was right, it was the life. But Jowan still dreamed of his little cabin, his garden and making his life a tribute to Amell and Lily, the Spirit Healer with a terrible taste in friends and the only woman he'd even thought he'd loved. "Levvy!" Derrick waved one of his huge hands in front of Jowan's grey gaze. The apostate startled and almost dropped the brown-stained bottle before he caught it in his lap. "Maker's breath yer off in yer mind again!"

Jowan smiled weakly and rubbed the sweat slicked back of his neck awkwardly. "It's happening more often."

"I'd be careful runt, they say when a fisherman goes inta 'is mind too much 'e'll wanna stay there." The Boss warned with a shove of his hairy elbow into his ribs. Jowan rubbed the sharp pain in his side, scowling unattractively.

"I like being in my mind. Quieter than you lot." Jowan smirked triumphantly.

"'E's all yers Derry." The Boss shrugged. Derrick clasped Jowan into a bone-crushing embrace that made the apostate turned fisherman, one-day to turn apothecary eep so high pitched he was sure that only dogs should have heard the noise.

"We's ya friends now Levvy!" Derrick declared as Jowan fell into a bone-less heap like an eel.

"So brigh'en up lad." Rabbie rolled his eyes.

"Back ta work ya slackers!" The Boss chivvied. Jowan stood painfully back up, his mana aching to burn Derrick alive. He kept that thought to himself though, he liked the men he was with and didn't relish burning The Trout's Lips until he had to make a desperate swim back to shore either. No, Jowan Levyn kept a tight grasp on his mana control. Never had he cursed as he was born more. Not since the taunting words that stung like a whip from his mother's mouth. Abomination. He shivered involuntarily and smiled over at the others.

"So who's up for a drink in The Rusty Anchor when we get on land?"

* * *

Tabris scowled at the bedroll she'd bought in Lothering. It seemed the merchant thought because he was selling to an elf he could get away with shoddy items. Her back was covered in bites from fleas and other mites. That was from her tenement bed back in Denerim. The worst ones were from the bedroll she'd been dragging along in her kite shield via piling everything she owned in it, putting a rope about the handles and then tying said rope to her waist. Balls if she'd carry it all when in the snow it was like a toboggan. "I 'ave shorter legs than you miserable shems. Chip chop!" The warrior elf clapped her hands, the cold making the smack all that more painful.

Behind her, Alistair, Leliana, Morrigan and the non-shem, Sten of the Beresaad trouped, each with a healthy pink on their cheeks and red noses poking out from hooded cloaks. The only person even keeping pace was Shemfingers, the mabari that had somehow imprinted and then found her after Ostagar – named for his fascination with biting certain parts of shems, humans. The dog didn't have an issue with the qunari nor herself though.

"Maker's breath Kiandra! Give me five seconds to die panting here." Alistair wheezed. Tabris rolled her eyes, honestly! Wasn't she supposed to be the unhealthy thing, malnourished from living in a squalid Alienage and with jutting ribs? Morrigan certainly had the soft curves of someone who had enough food, even if she was more angular and muscular than the mages that were at Ostagar, and Leliana too, that was a well fed shem. Alistair was certainly a well built shem, muscle and fat to keep him warm. So how come it was her that ran circles around them?

"Well I do wish you would die quietly templar." Morrigan sniffled at the man, getting a cold glare from him as she grinned in a feral fashion.

"If you don't pace yourself Warden you will get sweaty and freeze." Sten grunted. The elf from Denerim was shocked a moment and racked her brains, trying to count the words the grey-skinned giant had ever spoken to her in a string. It didn't help she couldn't count past twenty without difficulty. Not that Sten even spoke that much, she should know. The elf was blessed and cursed in some respects with her memory. Blessed she could recall anything she'd ever seen, heard or smelled, like her mother's cooking and the tunes she hummed doing the everyday task, or the look on the baby bird's feathery face when she'd saved it from a stray mangy cat and fed it some milk and breadcrumbs until it was healthy again. Those were always comforting memories she could bring back at a moment's notice. But then, darker, horrid ones came back. The first time she'd laid on her back and opened her legs to feed her family in those weeks after her mother's death. The way father smelled of burnt flesh the day her mother was laid out on a pyre to be sent to the Maker and the way it clung rebelliously to his clothes when she gave him a comforting hug. The violent screaming and crying of Shianni as she'd propped her back up and half-carried her cousin after being kidnapped and raped by the vile, late, Vaughan Kendalls. Tabris schooled her face blank, life was a bitch but you had to make the best of it or you'd get melancholic.

That was funny, she couldn't even spell melancholic. She knew what it meant though.

"I dun't think so." She snorted in response to Sten when she'd gathered her wits about her, dropping back slightly so her shem and qunari companions could catch up.

"Tis completely true." Morrigan sniffed. The elf thought the witch, the apostate they'd had to keep safe on the debt of their lives from Flemeth, was rather amusing with her archaic, haughty language. And her opinions were fresh, another person who couldn't give a rat's arse what someone thought of them.

"Oh?" Tabris raised an eyebrow.

"Entirely, think how cold you get after a bath and have yet to dry?" Morrigan posed. In some respects, Tabris supposed the shem was trying to make sure she was alive and safe, not in a motherly way but in her own way of being companionable or friendly. Knowledge and power, they were worth something to the witch and Tabris was inclined to agree. That and maintained life, you couldn't do much good when you're dead.

"Oh yeah," The elf pulled her mouth into a frown. "You think dwarves 'ave sulphur? These fleas are fuckin' killin' me!"

Alistair snorted, his breathing hitched, as if his breath was stolen. He always did when she was 'crude'. As she might have thought previously, Tabris just didn't give a rat's arse. "I should think so!" He said in a voice too high pitched. Must've crushed his balls at the same time. Poor shem just had the grace of Shemfingers when the mabari just woke up. Tabris snorted to herself, remembering the dog being startled away and lolloping head-first into Leliana's leg, toppling the Chantry Sister.

"You should only use enough to kill them though; too much might create a smell." Leliana lilted. Tabris sometimes found it difficult to understand her with the Orlesian accent but it was a pleasant enough sound. She could sing, when she cooked or washed the stew-pot they used for every meal they cobbled together the Chantry Sister would sing a hymn from her time in the cloister. Perhaps all Orlesians could sing. Tabris knew she sounded like a cross between a cat with its tail stepped on and the dying throes of a Hurlock.

Tabris merely grunted in acknowledgement of the Chantry Sister and gestured to a copse of spiny fir trees in the distance. "We set camp early 'cause it's blinkin' cold and I'll even cook if you shems can stand city rabbit!"

Leliana and Alistair pulled faces but both Morrigan and Sten seemed nonplussed about the thought of rat for dinner. It had been apparent the first time the elf cooked that none of them had known that piece of slang until they'd sunk their teeth into the chunks of meat in the stew and commented on the different flavour to normal rabbit. She'd caught them back in Lothering, kept the bastards plump in their cages with left-over food from their dinners. Living in the Alienage taught a unique set of skills which included over seven ways of making rat taste good and different, pigeons were a rarer treat, cat was stringy and you just couldn't eat dog. But rat, rat was plentiful, tastier than a Drakon eel pie and eel pie was a special First Day meal in the Tabris household. She felt warm at the memory of Shianni's infamous 'Denerim Stew' – made with the rabbits of the city. "How will you cook it then Kiandra?" Leliana posed, the crinkles gently tugging themselves flat from her forehead.

Tabris stuck her tongue out the corner of her mouth as she thought, trying to picture what supplies they were carrying other than the rats, a bit of elfroot and some berries that were not going to do much. "Forage for some 'erbs, maybe a bit of chestnut 'cause I saw some a while back. Might've been conkers though. I'll stuff 'em and the spit roast. Sound tasty or pass?"

"If I find the flavour… overpowering you can finish it for me." The red-head answered, sliding the spare shield that carried her personal affects into her usual place she would pick when they made camp. Just between hers and Sten's tent. Alistair would go opposite her and Morrigan would set up almost under the treeline. It was a good habit to find their spaces even when living in canvas stuck in the snow. Alistair dumped his own tent unceremoniously as Shemfingers sniffed at his hand. The ex-templar jumped. Tabris laughed.

* * *

"I didn't mean it!" Jowan shouted as he ran, his breath ragged and the muscles of his legs on fire. He didn't mean it. He didn't mean it. Oh Maker… He glanced back for the briefest of moments to see The Boss, Rabbie and Derrick trying to almost no luck to put the flames out from The Trout's Lips.

Jowan despaired. The men he'd worked alongside for nearly three months now – they hated him, The Boss had shouted that if he didn't scarper now, he'd have the apostate strung up in front of the Chantry. Derrick had glowered silently, his baby-ish face reddened and Rabbie just looked hurt, those eyes watery as they saw the boat aflame. Jowan was sorry.

He was so sorry.

Not only for destroying their livelihoods but because he'd fall further back on his dreams, on keeping alive the memory of his best friend and his Lily. The apostate wiped a stream of snot running down his face and baulked at the sight of blood dripping warmly from his nose.

That was when he ran straight into a templar.

Oh couldn't his luck get ANY better? The apostate cursed and tried to think of a way to explain his blood just flowing from his nose. "Are you alright Ser?" The templar took off his helmet, holding it under his arm and helping the apostate up. Jowan gnashed his teeth together at the embarrassment of the situation he found himself in.

"Aye, jus' peachy." He wiped another glut of blood from his face, hoping his Redcliffe Accent wasn't too suspicious, he was terrible at copying it. The templar wriggled, struggling with his helmet under his elbow, clasped to his side until he freed an off-white handkerchief from his pocket.

"Sorry about that. I didn't even hear the crack on my armour." The templar smiled weakly. Jowan furrowed his brow. The templar thought…

It seemed he had enough time to run then. Or walk away at his own pace as it were. "It's fine. Damn fing breaks wiv a weak gale," The apostate pinched his nose with the handkerchief, bright red spreading into the thin fabric in a spiderweb on thicker threads. "Can I return this to tha Chantry tommora? I gorra get 'ome or tha missus'll kill me!"

The templar chuckled as Jowan walked away with his hanky and a promise made of Starkhaven mist. The apostate counted his lucky stars about that… Maker he did!

Then he realised people bled normally. The templar didn't know he was an apostate so why would he automatically assume he was a blood mage, a maleficar? Jowan could almost sing at the top of his lungs.

Except he'd burnt down The Trout's Lips when he couldn't contain the magic anymore, it was instinctual the way he'd had the flame blossom from his fingers when the fish was thrown at him, hitting his face and his new life was over, he'd be starting again from scratch. Perhaps he'd go further south, get away from the distant sight of Kinloch Hold looming darkly on the horizon. Why did he have to mess up with everything he ever did?


	5. Potash Enough To Wash A Shirt

Potash Enough To Wash A Shirt

* * *

Teagan was never sure what Eamon wanted from him, but his elder brother would not find him wanting and his nephew would not be a slave of the Chantry. He'd sat idly by when Maric's bastard child had been ferried off to become a templar and under their thumb but not Connor. It wasn't that Bann Teagan Guerrin wasn't Andrastian, on the contrary he had nothing but respect for the religion and said his prayers with reverence, but he knew there was a darker side to it all, one that controlled people. One should be free, or as free as one could be.

And so he'd donned the spare armour of a templar, easily infiltrating the Chantry as a templar from the north of the country. It was almost ridiculously easy to be put on lone patrol when word of a spontaneous fire in the docks emerged.

Teagan ran as easily as it was possible in the heavy platemail and leather surcoat of the faith, hoping he'd found an apostate for to be Connor's tutor in the arcane arts. The boy needed to control his magic, then it would be easy to pass him off as any other mundane person. After all - it wasn't as if you could see magic emanating from someone. Perhaps it was a trick of his mind but everytime he looked at Connor a strange sudden shudder filled his bones, as if the boy was on a separate plane to the mundane now. It likely wasn't the case, mere superstition. But it happened.

He came upon three men in oilskins throwing bucketfuls of lake water at a flaming boat, cursing and hurrying like their lives depending on it. "Sers? We heard this fire may have been caused by an apostate!" He shouted over the roar and crackle of salt encrusted wood taking to light, the flames burning the odd colours of salted wood, greens and blues amongst the red and orange natural fire.

A man with a great beard, tangled from the weather, his face lined and tanned turned, bucket in hand before slopping it toward the boat. He looked Teagan up and down. "Damned apostate, string 'im up o'er th' Chantry yer should!" He growled, the strong accent of the working Redcliffe class edging his words.

"Where?" Teagan asked succinctly once he'd dissected the words of the fisherman.

A man, a simpleton by the big round face and honest almond shaped eyes pointed, a moue of distaste on his face that looked like he'd wanted to bawl his eyes out, pointed toward the east snorting angrily. " 'E went tha' way Ser - black 'air an' 'e's a skinny lil' runt too!" The simpleton bellowed, scooping two buckets at once from where he waded in the shallow banked waters, throwing the water with a ferocious force. Teagan wouldn't want to be on the end of a big stick and the simpleton. Maker's breath even the water looked painful as it sizzled onto the boat.

Teagan nodded and pulled his spare leather coin purse off his belt - it only had two sovereigns in it - mixed coin. But he dropped it in the sights of all three men. "Thank you Sers." Then he sped off in the right direction.

* * *

Teagan watched the apostate after he'd bumped into him. Teagan could see that strange distance in the man, the same one that gave him the shivers around Connor. It made him wonder. But certain people had that about them, the Teyrns and King Maric all had that strange distance about them - it could be a figment of his imagination.

The apostate parading as a fisherman huddled into the nook between the blacksmith and the tanner's - changing his clothes carefully - thinking he was unseen. The man fit the description, and the blood had poured thick from his nose - punched?

Either way, the telltale sign was the way he'd baulked at the templar uniform. There was a mad fear for a brief moment in his eyes that put the fight or flight signal in his actions - throughout their short conversation. Teagan was sure, and he had to be.

With similar care as the apostate took, he removed his heavy armour, revealing normal, soft linens and velvets and leather riding britches. He kept his distance, tousling his hair from the sweat slicked style it had taken inside his helmet as he walked toward the nervous man hiding in the shadows.

"Excuse me Ser, I couldn't help but-"

The apostate looked toward him, the blood hastily wiped from his face not, merely the barest dribble over his top lip and his grey eyes were wild with fright, his hands clenching before a look of utter horror crossed his face and he shoved his hands behind his back. "What do you want?" He hissed, lowering but not ready to fight by Teagan's estimations, more ready to run.

"I heard a rumour Ser that you're a well-educated man to be in Redcliffe," Teagan sighed, leaning against a water barrel beneath a gutter pipe. "I need your help you see."

The apostate narrowed his eyes. "My help? You hardly know me!" Teagan whet the inside of his mouth, focussing solely on his next words to be as persuasive and non-hostile as possible.

"You would be slightly wrong there. My name is Teagan Guerrin, brother to the Arl, we have been looking for a tutor from the village to help the heir of Redcliffe learn more about the town and how a working man provides. Of course, the man would have to be well spoken, as you are, educated in a few languages although it may not be too important and there is another simple matter." Teagan leaned into the barrel more, purposely relaxing his stance.

The apostate eyed him with a look of wonderment, a mixture of emotions crossing his face in sharp, brief intervals before he spoke. "I can speak Orlesian and Tevene alongside the King's Tongue... the Arlessa is Orlesian is she not?" He licked his lips thoughtfully as Teagan nodded. "What would the other simple matter be?"

"He must be Redcliffe born, had worked for his supper. I take it you would be a good candidate there too? I had heard such good word of you, it was the Maker's luck that I saw you walking here not a moment's past. Your pay will be a sovereign a week and all expenses for clothing, food and bed will be covered as part of your job of course." He smiled as genuinely as he could. Hopefully this would protect Connor, hopefully this might make it seem that he was useful to his brother. Compared to his two siblings, Teagan always felt shadowed, the Warrior Queen who helped push back the Orlesians and the political genius Arl. What was he? A Bann. The Bann who no woman could tame. That was the only thing they said about him.

The apostate's eyes darted backwards and forwards, as if thinking to himself. "I have lived in Redcliffe a small time, but I can tell the boy about working for one's living, hopefully educate him somewhat, if you tell me what he needs to know I could try in the least."

"Excellent. I will instruct you in the morning on the subjects he is to learn although you may find the boy eager to pepper you with questions rather quickly. Would you care to walk with me back to the castle? We always have a guest bedroom set up that would be of use until a more suitable room can be made up for you." He purposely put an arm around his new apostate acquisition to seem chummy. How did the Templars find this so difficult? If he'd been one, the apostate would be in secure custody without a question! "So can I take your name fine Ser? They never told me in my travels, simply how you looked."

"Jowan Ser," The mage sniffed, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket and wiping away a fresh dribble of blood from his nose. "Do excuse me, I walked into a door, reading..."

"These doors can be troublesome." Teagan laughed good-naturedly. It was imperative the apostate found himself comfortable at least in his presence, then hopefully it could be explained without fuss what he would truly be teaching the boy.

* * *

Jowan was still reeling and marvelling at the grandeur of the Guerrin Castle, perched high over Lake Calenhad it had a large glass window where one could watch the ships idly sailing over the glassy waters. The walls were decked in tapestries of Orlesian make, he could tell. Jauffre had always adored art and had been able to order in a book on it because of his position as Irving's apprentice. Orlesian horses in tapestries were sewn without genetalia, they only ever used male horses in war too. That and the shape of the eyes. Jowan felt a pang of regret regarding his friend. How he had done so much without him, free to the world was such a big cost, likely the lives of both Amell and Lily. But he had no time or allowance for that now. Now he would earn some money as the Arl's son's tutor then run off into the night when he had enough for his cabin. It would be worth it in the end to treasure their memories.

"This will be your room, you will meet Connor in the morning of course, and the Arl I should imagine." Teagan Guerrin nodded toward him as he steered the apostate into a simple room, more grand than any he'd ever been in but still simple compared to the magnificence of the rest of the castle. He'd never stepped on carpet before!

"Thank you Ser. I will rise early to get started on my tasks." He smiled gaily back. This would be a new start and nobody from The Trout's Lips would see him, nobody would rat him out. He was off scot free. Maybe he could ask Teagan to anonymously donate his first pay to The Boss? That might be more than enough for him to buy a beautiful boat, even have time to make one himself without worry for pay.

* * *

Eamon was shocked his baby brother had managed so easily to find an apostate. The Arl watched him arrive at the breakfast table, introduced as Jowan by a servant. He sat nervously at the table, smiling weakly toward Connor and himself. "_Bonjour Madame Isolde, vous êtes très belle aujourd'hui._" Isolde giggled and Eamon rolled his eyes. Teagan had laid it on thick then about manners and using Orlesian if he knew it. "My lord, this is a fine feast. Too fine for a simple tutor I fear." The apostate looked over the food ravenously. He was painfully thin, with thin features and slight demeanour that made him so unassuming. Yet he looked as if he contained some power that set him apart from the guardsmen that patrolled the gardens of the castle.

Eamon chuckled. "It is nothing. Eat, you're a valued new member of my staff." _More valued than a lot, and disposable - a bonus by far._ He raised a glass of milk, why his wife insisted it made the skin clear was utter poppycock by one kept marriage happy.

The apostate smiled, raising his own glass before drinking heartily as if he'd never drunk before. Ever.

* * *

Connor was walked with uncontainable excitement at his side, the young boy was fearful of his magic, had heard the Chantry Sisters speak such great ill of magic. Eamon cursed the young boy for the weakness yet it was something he could not control. Isolde had spoken with him in their marital bed after marital affairs and they both lay breathless, telling of her elder brother who had been so cursed. The LaCroix family had hired an apostate to tutor Yves in private, only the common folk deserved the circle. Nobility were chosen by the Maker, he cursed them with magic because they could retain their nobility and the yoke of the struggle easily. Eamon bit his tongue but loved his wife. She was right, it was her accursed blood that had done this.

But Connor was his boy, his sweet boy and no Templar would take him away. It would break his heart and Isolde's which was as if someone broke his heart twice. If the apostate that taught Connor could serve two purposes though... why not?

Jowan stood in the study, pulling tomes from the bookshelves and marvelling at them with gasps of air sucked between his teeth every so often. "I love that one. It had dragons in it." Connor cooed at the mage, having walked beside him.

The apostate looked ready to bolt for a moment before awkwardly bending down. "Show me where, I don't think I've read this one." He passed the book over as Eamon beckoned him. The man looked worried but followed into the adjoining study nevertheless.

"Sit." Eamon commanded. The apostate complied easily. "Now I have to ask you a question, and I want you to answer truthfully as if you swore on the life of my son."

Solemnity chilled the air as the man gulped, his voice breaking. "Ask me."

"Are you or are you not an apostate?" The air stilled completely, no magic at work but the stillness of breath.

"How did you find out?" The man hung his head, he looked ready to cry.

"I have my sources. I knew of course before you answered. Teagan was tasked to find an apostate." He sniffed. Jowan looked up questioningly but thankfully silent. He had such a grating voice. "You see, I do need a tutor for Connor. You see the connection?"

Jowan stayed still, shoulders shaking before his mouth slackened and he looked upwards, "I see... What do you wish me to teach him then?"

"Understand that should you not teach Connor to control his powers or out him to those that would see him harm that I will be more for your to fear than any Templar. Know that now." Eamon ground out. Jowan nodded quickly. "Good. I want him to be able to control himself. The boy is to be an Arl one day. You bring ruination down on the name Guerrin and even my previous threat has no meaning compared to the pain you will be put through." He sniffed loudly in the dry silence.

Jowan nodded. "I will go teach him... on my life. Anything you ask."

_Good. It seems the man is more pliable than I thought any apostate would be. _"And one more thing."

"Yes Ser?"

"You were in the circle?"

"Yes Ser."

"Get to you work then, I doubt you would hasten to return there should you not." Eamon sniffed smartly again as Jowan left the room.

_The Templars had made a compliant little mage for him. Excellent. _

* * *

Kiandra took a deep breath, likely the last deep breath she'd ever want to take as she looked back at the doomed souls following her. "Oi, keep your smalls on ya bloody dwarf. Oghren had to piss!" She groused at the guard to the Deep Roads as he tried to chivvy them along.

Blasted provings, carta, blackmailing dwarven houses and all for nought. Into the scariest, darkest, smelliest and most disgusting place in all of Thedas that crawls with nightmarish creatures. To find a blood Anvil and settle the fight for the crown between Bhelen Aeducan and Pyral Harrowmont. "Yer! Quit yer bellyachin' ya pansy!" Oghren flipped a middle finger at him as the dwarf trotted, axe held proudly on his shoulder as he whistled a gay tune past.

"I suddenly wonder if you;ll ever find Paragon Branka in my lifetime let alone yours Warden." The guard dwarf sniffled.

Morrigan laughed, Leliana chuckled and Alistair looked queasy. Sten was probably the most nonplussed and her Mabari was the happiest. Probably because the mutt didn't understand. "We'll do it. I'm good with finding things, carta hideouts, patrolling dwarves in the darkness, weaks spots in damned armour." She twirled a dagger in her hand, catching it again. the guard paled.

"Sodding elves." He grumbled.

"Too damn right!" She hollered back. "Did we bring enough rats then? I'm starving but I want to earn my dinner in darkspawn heads today. Carta heads looked really macabre."

"I think darkspawn have pointier fangs. Scarier." Alistair smirked.

"Even better! Scary foes to down." For all her false bravado, Kiandra was shitting herself!


End file.
